Playing the Devil

by R. J. Lee

  “And what would the difference be?”

  Connor cracked a hint of a smile. “I mean, he’s a dentist. He sees a cavity and goes for it. He takes that drill and grinds away after he’s numbed his patients with the needle, and that gets the job done.”

  “I don’t quite see how that’s relevant,” Ross said, looking sideways. “Please enlighten me.”

  “It’s just that I can’t be that direct, dealing with kids the way I do. And their worried parents. I have to take my patients dead serious, even if what they’re saying makes no sense. I can’t make any false assumptions based on the way a child sees and feels the world. So, there was a part of me that took Brent seriously when he threw his weight around with that story.”

  It took Ross a while to process Connor’s answer. Something about it seemed overly rehearsed and perhaps a bit too touchy-feely. “All right, then. Let’s go on the assumption that Brent was telling the truth. Did you have the same visceral reaction that Tip did? Did the story stir you up and make you want to go for the jugular? Or the neck, like Tip did?”

  “A little. But not exactly like Tip. He’s always been a guy that acts out when he needs to. I . . . I sorta keep things in. If you want to know where that’s gotten me, I have an ulcer to show for it. It’s under control with medication now, but at least I know why I have it.”

  “Glad it’s under control,” Ross said. “My late father had one, and it was hell for him to manage.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Ross nodded gratefully and then moved on. “Do you ever find yourself wanting to explode because of the way you keep things in?”

  Connor’s frown indicated he understood the implications of the question. “What are you getting at?”

  Ross leaned back in his chair as if he were about to tell a joke. “Just something that occurred to me. I see the results of road rage a lot in my work. You know how people can get in traffic. They let things build up and build up until their frustrations explode and get the better of them. Sometimes with fatal results.” He let that lie there for a while, and Connor did not seem to want to respond.

  Finally, Connor said, “I’ve never been guilty of road rage. As I said, I keep things bottled up inside.”

  “Duly noted, once again,” Ross continued. “Which brings me to this. Tip also told me that the two of you were mistaken when you both said you were always together during the blackout. He mentioned that you took a bathroom break for several minutes. During that time, you would have been apart from each other.”

  Connor looked astounded. “And? Do you think I wanted Tip to go with me? I’m a grown man.”

  “The point is,” Ross said, straightening his posture, “that you had a window of opportunity during that time to retrieve the pestle and pay Brent Ogle a very nasty little visit.”

  Connor’s cultivated pediatric demeanor had now completely vanished. “That’s nonsense. I did no such thing. I’d have to be in the middle of one helluva rage to do something like that.”

  “Yes. I would agree that whoever did this had to be in . . . as you say, one helluva rage or not in their right mind. Blunt force trauma to the head is never pretty.”

  “I could never do something like that,” Connor said, shaking his head. “I make my living healing little children. I took an oath to do no harm. That also applies to my life outside the doctor’s office. I think you need to look elsewhere for the culprit in this case. Tip and I both are not the man you’re looking for.”

  “Or not the team I’m looking for?”

  “If you want to put it that way.”

  “We have no evidence that either of you are,” Ross told him. “But we have to keep at it with our questions. Somebody killed Brent Ogle, and I’m sure you appreciate the fact that the altercation both of you had with him requires that we investigate further. We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t.”

  “I do understand that,” Connor said. “And for what it’s worth, I abhor what happened to Brent. He was somewhat of a conceited scoundrel, but our wives brought us together socially, and we seemed to have found the lowest common denominator for hanging out—drinking. Oh, and golfing. There wasn’t much more to it than that. We weren’t really friends where it counts. I wouldn’t say we’d go out of our way to risk our investments or anything like that for him.”

  “That’s pretty straightforward. But I’ll tell you what I told Tip. We may need you to come in again as the investigation proceeds. And stay in town until we get this thing solved.”

  Connor said that he would and then left with a polite goodbye. Ross again leaned back in his chair and did a quick mental review. He had to admit that the “team” of Tip Jarvis and Connor James suddenly seemed far less viable as suspects. There was plenty to merit that impression now. They were both professional men with full lives, and the risk either of them would have taken to commit murder did not line up with Ross’s knowledge of human behavior. True, they were the closest to the crime scene and the bar, but Ross felt that the psychology seemed all wrong. Now wasn’t that a hoot and a half? Of course, if either or both of the pair were not telling the truth, all bets were off. All along, they had been backing each other up, but now that he had gotten to know them a little better, Ross had concluded that either they were very clever liars, or they were innocent. And he was willing to bet that when Bax reviewed the tapes with him, his mentor would come to the same conclusion.

  * * *

  Wendy was thrilled when Lyndell had popped into her cubicle ten minutes or so earlier and offered to take her to lunch. It was the first time she had done something like that since replacing Dalton Hemmings. There had been plenty of meetings in the editor’s office, during which Lyndell had more than once dangled the promise of “getting a bite together soon.”

  Now it was finally happening, and when Wendy was asked to pick a place that served shrimp and grits—something Lyndell said she had just been dying to try since forever—The Toast of Rosalie fit the bill perfectly. Seafood was their specialty, and the place was a bit pricey. But since Lyndell was treating, Wendy saw no reason not to go all out to impress her boss.

  The Toast of Rosalie was one of those restaurants whose strength was the cuisine, not the ambience. If Rosalieans wanted a little bit of both, they frequented the Bluff City Bistro or The House on the Hill, an eighteenth-century tavern that had been repurposed several times before its successful incarnation as a Southern comfort food establishment.

  The Toast of Rosalie made no bones about its purpose in life. There were no fussy potted ferns and palms, fancy paintings on the walls, or stained-glass windows for show. Just a ceiling with exposed ductwork and a hardwood floor that had seen better days; and most of all, knowledgeable career waiters who knew which fresh fish had just been flown up from the Gulf and which specials of the day were to die for.

  Meanwhile, there was always their version of shrimp and grits every time out—laden with sweet julienned bell pepper, chopped onion, mushrooms, a bit of andouille sausage, a base of cheesy grits, and, of course, those oversized shrimp on top, grilled to perfection. It was a lot of food to eat, and Wendy could not recall a time when she had not asked for a doggy bag.

  “I gather your feature is going well,” Lyndell was saying after their older, distinguished-looking waiter with salt-and-pepper hair had taken their order and headed off with menus in hand. “I haven’t heard you complaining about anything. I have to tell you—I do appreciate that quality in a reporter. Let them figure it out for themselves, I always say.”

  Wendy nodded while quickly squeezing lemon into her ice water and then making a little whirlpool with her spoon. “I’ve gotten loads of cooperation from everyone so far.”

  She swallowed a sip and then caught Lyndell’s eye. “But I wanted to tell you how perfect your timing was with this lunch meeting, so to speak. I do have some concerns about how we make this article work in a positive way, instead of making it look like we’re ganging up on a dead man. I don’t think we wa
nt to go there with our readers. I’ve been thinking it over, and I realized that no matter how unpopular Brent Ogle was with everyone out at the RCC and even around town, the fact remains that he was brutally murdered. So, I have to find just the right slant, you know. Both Deedah Hornesby and Mitzy Stone minced no words about how much better things were now that William Voss and Brent Ogle weren’t running things. Do you see the slippery slope I’m suggesting to you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Lyndell said, cocking her head to one side. “We can’t be disrespectful or appear to be blatantly judging. Your assignment is going to be a bit more difficult than I thought at first.”

  “It’s also occurred to me that our article showcasing women in power positions and having unusual jobs in Rosalie might be a little easier to read after Brent Ogle’s murderer is caught and his motivation is revealed.”

  “Or her motivation.”

  Wendy sounded and felt a bit sheepish. “Of course. You’re absolutely right. It’s no foregone conclusion that the murderer was a man. I guess there’s still the idea out there that men do certain things better while women do certain other things better, and ne’er the twain shall meet. I should know better, and I’ll try to keep an eye on these knee-jerk reactions.”

  She took a deep breath and continued. “The point I wanted to make about our article coming out after the case is solved is that everyone would be talking about why Brent Ogle got murdered. There’s no way the reasons will be uplifting, I’m quite sure. That way, if we do have any comparisons to make between the old male regime and the new female regime, people will understand it all a bit better, and they won’t think we’re piling on.”

  “That was a bit long-winded,” Lyndell said. “But you finally got there. Still, we’ll want to be careful not to get into outright sensationalism with any of this. It’s easy to do.”

  The remark brought a wry grin to Wendy’s face. For the first time since Lyndell had taken over the editorial reins, she had made a statement that reminded Wendy of something Dalton Hemmings might say. But it was all good. She never wanted to be guilty of veering into tabloid journalism and the lowest common denominator that it attracted. So she was quite comfortable with the reminder. Perhaps it sounded different coming from a woman. Or someone she respected. Either one or both.

  “Who will you be interviewing next? ” Lyndell continued.

  “I thought I might visit Hollis Hornesby at his art gallery. As a matter of fact, we’re meeting later this afternoon,” Wendy said. “With his mother being a major focus of the feature, I wanted to get his point of view. Of course, he also happens to be a suspect in the case.”

  “Try not to do too much double duty, though. Unless you want to give up the newspaper business and actually join the police department.”

  Wendy laughed brightly. “Now you sound exactly like my father. He’s lobbying all the time.”

  “An interesting man, I’ve heard. I’ve been meaning to meet him in person and just haven’t worked it into my schedule yet,” Lyndell said.

  “That can be arranged. I’ll tell him to drop by sometime. The newspaper editor and the Chief of Police should definitely be on speaking terms.”

  “Oh, we’ve spoken over the phone a couple of times. I confess I liked the sound of his voice.”

  Wendy couldn’t help but read between the lines. It had been nearly a dozen years since she and her father had lost Valerie Lyons Winchester—wife, mother, and artist specializing in primitive acrylics—to pneumonia; but Wendy had never pressed her Captain Bax about the issue of further companionship. The matchmaker in her was instantly intrigued, however.

  When the plates of shrimp and grits finally arrived, Lyndell lit up like a little girl at a Disney princess–themed birthday party. Then, when she got her first taste, she looked like she just might rocket out of her chair up to the ceiling. Wendy remembered her own exaggerated reaction the first time she’d tasted the dish.

  “Ohh!” she exclaimed, making dainty circles in the air with her fork. “This is every bit as delicious as I thought it would be.”

  “Isn’t it? If I could afford it, I’d probably eat here every day for lunch and shoot my budget to pieces.”

  Lyndell shrunk down to normal size and looked at her sideways. “Is that by any chance a request for a raise?”

  “No, thanks,” Wendy said, chuckling. “Just had one when I got this investigative reporter job last year. On the other hand, if you’re offering . . .”

  “We’ll see after I’ve been here a tad bit longer,” Lyndell told her, but her tone was friendly and promising.

  After that, the conversation morphed into small talk and additional raves about the food—the newspaper business being put aside for a spell. It was time spent well delegated, and the bond between editor and reporter had clearly grown even stronger by the time the dishes had been cleared. Wendy sensed that that had been Lyndell’s mission in the first place.

  “I’m too full of good food and good conversation to order dessert,” Lyndell said, giving Wendy a fond glance. “Unless you have something light as a feather to recommend.”

  “Afraid there’s no such creature like that here on the menu,” Wendy said. “Everything sweet they whip up is beyond ooey-gooey and heavy. Good for the taste buds, but not good for the figure.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Lyndell said, getting the waiter’s attention for the bill with a delicate wave of her hand. “A sedentary job like this can sometimes lead a woman astray if she doesn’t watch it, but sometimes I just say to hell with the discipline and treat myself.”

  Out of the corner of her eye on the way out, Wendy caught sight of Gerald Mansfield as she trailed behind her boss. She managed a mini-swivel of sorts to confirm that he really was the man she’d just spotted. He caught her maneuver, smiled, and waved at her, and she nodded back politely. All that time, he had been seated at a table in the distance with a clear line of sight to her own table. But she had been too preoccupied with Lyndell and their conversation to notice, not to mention that Lyndell had been blocking her view much of the time.

  For some reason, she found the fact that he was there at all, possibly observing her throughout her meal, a bit peculiar. Was it just a coincidence? Surely, it had to be. How could he have known that she would be at The Toast of Rosalie today? Her sleuthing mode had kicked into high gear once again. After all, he was quite some distance away from the RCC to be taking such a leisurely lunch break, although she had to admit she had no idea how long he had been sitting there. Perhaps the man treated himself to something upscale to eat every once in a while. Perhaps there was nothing more to it than that. Practically everyone in Rosalie, it seemed, was crazy for The Toast of Rosalie’s shrimp and grits. Why should Gerald Mansfield be any different?

  At any rate, Wendy let these meanderings linger in her head as Lyndell crisply led the way out the door and down the street to her car. Wendy had told Ross that she thought there was something not quite right about Gerald Mansfield during that rocking chair interview she had conducted with him out on the deck. Ross had seemed to dismiss her impression and said he’d found his own interrogation of the man mostly unremarkable. Perhaps she had been overly influenced by the appearance of the hot tub nearby—that, and the memories of Brent Ogle’s blunt force trauma to the head. Who wouldn’t have found all that loathsome to deal with?

  Then a phrase reappeared on the front burner of her brain: following orders. That had been a perception of Gerald that she’d had that first time. Was he still doing that? And, if so, for whom?

  CHAPTER 10

  Hollis Hornesby’s art gallery—preciously named Hollow Horne—occupied one of the many brick and lacework buildings scattered around downtown Rosalie, this one on Locust Street. Unlike the other brick and black lacework structures, however, Hollow Horne’s balcony and delicate columns had been painted white for as long as anyone could remember, and that gave them a distinctive flair. Several Rosalieans had written letters to the Citizen expressing t
heir delight that the long-vacant store had been repurposed for such an upscale, cultural mission. It remained to be seen, however, how those same Rosalieans actually embraced the art pieces inside with their pocketbooks. It was too early to tell if they would end up placing Hollis’s one-note French Quarter studies on the walls of their homes and businesses.

  “Welcome to Hollow Horne,” Hollis said in that dramatic fashion of his as Wendy came through the glass-paneled front door. He then executed a fanciful twirl with a wide gesture and wineglass in hand. “These are my earnest offerings to the world, reflecting images of my vivid life down in the French Quarter for all those many years. You’re more than welcome to browse to your little heart’s content. My Mardi Gras section is to the right, and my French Quarter Street section is to your left. Is this your first visit to my little shop?”

  “It is,” Wendy told him, noting that several lighted votive candles on the checkout counter were filling the room with a strong vanilla fragrance. “Please don’t hold that against me, either. I’ve been so busy with my work that I just haven’t been able to work it into my schedule.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of holding such a grudge. It’s beyond juvenile. Being devoted to work is something I completely understand. If I could just get Mother to slow down a bit out at the RCC, though. She’s so driven to make everything perfect. Nothing ever will be in this world, you know, but Mother keeps holding out hope that it will happen for her if she just tries hard enough.”

  “I can be somewhat of a perfectionist, myself,” Wendy said.

  Hollis starting talking out of the side of his mouth, and his eyes shifted to one side. “Mother’s been looking for a real project she could sink her teeth into ever since Father died. She liked it well enough, but being an accountant really didn’t do it for her. Now, though, she’s totally hooked on running the RCC. Pretty much nothing stands in her way. She’s her own little caftan-wearing bulldozer.”

  “Do you mind if we sit?” Wendy said, bringing out her notepad and pen from her purse.